


Wake me up

by Builder



Series: Powers/No Powers Choose-Your-Own-Adventure [14]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 05:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12499320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: Bucky's ill after a violent night terror.  Steve does his best to care for him, but the stress is making him feel a bit sick himself.





	Wake me up

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from Tumblr. Find me @Builder051.

Steve’s sleeping hard when he’s suddenly awoken by a sharp kick to the shins.  “Huh?  What?” he mumbles, body jolting with panic while his mind stays in the sleepy brush of time and date uncertainty. 

 

Bucky’s arm flails across the bed and slaps the skin of Steve’s chest before shoving upward over his throat.  The situation is blatantly apparent now; he’s having a nightmare, and an especially violent one, it seems. 

 

“Buck,” Steve rasps, shaking sleep from his voice.  He throws Bucky’s arm off him as gently as he can.  “Wake up.  You’re ok.  You’re safe.” 

 

Bucky mumbles something unintelligible.  He thrashes against the mattress, and Steve struggles to get ahold of him.  “Hey.  It’s Steve.  It’s me.  It’s ok,” he says a little louder.  “Wake up, ok?”  He places one hand on Bucky’s shoulder and the other on his cheek.

 

Bucky jerks and his eyes snap open.  His hand catches the side of Steve’s head as he thrashes again, confused and breathing heavily.  “Get off me,” He grunts.

 

“Yeah, ok.  I’m sorry,” Steve says, hurriedly moving his hands.  “You ok?  You know where you are?”

 

“Stop…I want to go home,” Bucky exhales.  He’s conscious, but not yet truly awake.

 

“You are home,” Steve says, reaching out a hand and hovering it an inch from Bucky’s stump arm.  “I’m here.  You’re home.”

 

Bucky’s breath hitches, and he curls onto his side away from Steve.  His body quivers and his shoulders contract up and down.  At first Steve thinks he’s crying, but then the sound of strangled retching starts.  Steve can’t help himself; he places his palm on Bucky’s upper arm.  “Alright, you’re alright,” he intones. 

 

Bucky coughs and struggles for breath.  Steve slaps him on the back and positions him to lean over the edge of the bed.  “It’s ok.  Just let it up.”  Vomit splatters onto the floor. 

 

Finally awareness seems to set in.  “Stevie?”  It’s hardly a whisper. 

 

“Yeah, Buck, I’m here,” Steve murmurs, smoothing Bucky’s sweaty hair back from his face.

 

“God, I’m sorry,” he breathes.  He trembles up on his arm and his hip and turns himself around to burrow into Steve’s chest.  “I’m sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” Steve soothes.  He wraps his arms around Bucky’s trembling body and drops the side of his cheek to the top of Bucky’s head, wondering if the radiating heat he’s feeling is leftover sleep warmth or a fever.  “It’s over now.  You’re ok.”

 

“But…God.  Stevie, I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize for having a nightmare,” Steve says.  He looks across at the alarm clock on Bucky’s bedside table; the glowing red numbers show it to be just after one in the morning.  It’s earlier than usual for Bucky to be up.  But if the whims of fate aren’t going to let him sleep tonight, then god knows Steve won’t be sleeping either.

 

The front of Steve’s shirt feels damp, and Bucky heaves a congested-sounding, tear-filled breath.  “It’s gonna be ok,” Steve whispers. 

 

It takes ten minutes or so for the tears to die down to just tremors, and another five for Bucky to uncurl himself slightly from under Steve’s arms. “Feel a little better?” Steve asks, wiping a glistening tear track from Bucky’s cheek.

 

Bucky shrugs. 

 

“Do you still feel sick?” Steve knows the nausea tends to linger, even though Bucky’s usually careful not to tell him.

 

“God…I don’t know.”  Bucky digs the heel of his hand into the furrow between his brows, the uncontrollable shake in his fingers visible even in the dim moonlight.

 

Steve takes that as a yes, and pulls Bucky into the ensuite to sit on the closed toilet and stare into the depths of the trash can while he sees to the sheets and the carpet. 

 

When the chores are done, Steve steps back across the cold tile and reaches for Bucky’s hand.  His forehead comes to meet Steve’s ribcage, and Steve pets his hair down the back of his neck.  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly.

 

“I don’t know,” Bucky mumbles.  “I’m…confused.”

 

“Confused how?” Steve asks.

 

“Like…sometimes I…don’t remember you.  Or I remember you all wrong.”  His voice is raw with emotion and illness.

 

Steve sighs.  He hates the nightmares.  Hates the war, hates goddamn fuckers that did god-knows-what to Bucky, the only person that’s ever mattered so much to him.  He hates that their actions have reached this far, getting him up at one in the morning to dispel tremors and clean up puke.  But mostly he hates seeing Bucky so worn down.

 

“It’s ok, Buck,” Steve breathes.  “It’ll come back once you wake up a little.  And you can ask me questions.  Whatever you want.  I’m…I’m here for you.”

 

“I don’t know what I want.”

 

The weakness in his voice breaks Steve’s heart.  “It’s alright, ok?” he says.  “Just…just come back to bed.”  It’s too early for everything.  Steve knows neither of them are going to sleep, but neither of them are going to do anything else, either.  All their usual activities like the gym, board games, and early breakfast seem inappropriate and distasteful.

 

The fresh sheets are cold when they crawl back into bed.  Bucky tucks his feet under Steve’s leg and buries his face in his chest.  His breaths are uneven, sending puffs of warm air through the thin fabric of Steve’s shirt. 

 

They lie there for hours.  The light of dawn is creeping through the closed curtains, and Steve’s almost drifting back to a state of soft unawareness when Bucky whispers, “Why’re you doing this, Stevie?”

 

It takes him a moment to process the words, then form his lips into an answer.  “’Cause I…’cause I just love you.”

 

By 8:30 in the morning, Bucky’s cowering in an odd position, laying his chest over his knees and curling under the covers with his head in Steve’s lap. He’s not sleeping, but his eyes flick back and forth beneath closed lids.  Steve’s asked him four times how he’s feeling, twice if he’s hungry, and once if he wants to get up.  It’s getting to the point where they need to get up, or at least Steve does so he can call them both in sick to work and get a glass of water so he and Bucky don’t die of dehydration, but the non-committal sounds Bucky makes in response to the questions seem to indicate a mixture of __no__ and __I don’t know__.

 

At 9:00 Steve’s phone rings.  He scrambles to answer it before the loud tone carries on too long, and he does his best not to move the lower half of his body as he reaches backward to get the device off his bedside table. 

 

“Hello?” he says, trying to keep his dry throat from making his voice overly gravelly. 

 

“You coming in today?”  It’s Nat, forgoing a greeting in favor of business.

 

“No, I was about to call.  It was a pretty rough night.  Buck needs a sick day.”

 

“You sure you’re not the one who’s sick?” Nat asks.  “You sound awful.”

 

“Well…” Steve considers the fact that he barely got two hours sleep, and now he’s been awake for the equivalent of a full workday.  Sitting upright is making his head throb.  “I’m ok.”

 

“Take care of him,” Nat says.  “And of yourself, Mr. I’m-always-fine.”

 

“Sure,” Steve says.  Then, “Can you text Sam?  Pass on the message?”

 

Nat agrees, then abruptly hangs up.  Steve switches his phone to vibrate and sets it on the bedside table.  He collapses back onto the pillows, letting the mild reverberations of vertigo play over his forehead.

 

“Buck.  We should get up.  Get something to eat,” Steve suggests.  He shifts just enough to slide his thigh out from cushioning Bucky’s head. 

 

“No,” Bucky whispers.  “Stay.” 

 

“I know you don’t feel good,” Steve soothes, “But you should come downstairs.  You can sleep on the couch.”

 

“No, I…I want you to stay real…” Bucky murmurs, an edge of tears coming back to his voice. 

 

The emotion hits Steve first, and he’s immediately crouched at Bucky’s side, hugging every inch of him he can reach, kissing the side of his face, and softly saying, “This is real.  I’m not gonna disappear.”  Bucky entwines his fingers with Steve’s and holds on tightly.

 

They make it to noon before Steve begins to feel like he’s dying.  Bucky’s possibly asleep now, still clutching Steve’s hand, and breathing evenly and deeply.  However small, it seems like an improvement. 

 

Steve’s condition is deteriorating in comparison, though.  The slight ache to his head has become a crushing boulder of pain between his temples. The back of his neck and the palms of his hands prickle with sweat, and his bones seem to have been turned to jelly.  His body’s surpassed hunger and gone straight to illness. 

 

He does his best to roll face-down so at least the bright daylight seeping through the edges of the window doesn’t burn up his eyeballs.  Steve carefully works his fingers out of Bucky’s lax grip, cold perspiration making his skin tacky.  It seems cruel to leave Bucky there with the possibility of waking up lost and alone, but Steve will be useless if he stays put. 

 

Dizziness hits when Steve puts his feet on the ground, and he traces his path against the wall with his fingertips as he makes his way to the hall and trips down the stairs.  Stars are starting to encroach on the corners of his vision. 

 

His first stop is the junk drawer where they keep painkillers, and Steve drops a double dose of Excedrin onto his tongue.  He uses the random coffee mug beside the sink to swallow down a quart and a half of water in eight-ounce increments.  He’s on his seventh refill when a swallow gets lost halfway down his throat and comes back as a gag.  A little water forces back up and splashes into the sink, but Steve’s pretty sure the pills he took are staying down.  He crosses his arms on the edge of the countertop and drops his forehead, desperately hoping the throb stays at its current level and doesn’t morph into more urgent nausea.

 

After he’s breathed for a moment, Steve stumbles to the pantry.  He inhales a protein bar, then dumps most of a box of banana nut granola into a plastic salad bowl.  He’s pouring milk over the mound of cereal when vertigo catches him off guard and sends him stumbling sideways under an invisible pressure around his left ear.

 

The gallon of milk hits the floor first, making a sick glugging sound as it dispenses white liquid all over the floor.  Then, the bowl falls off the counter in slow motion as Steve loses his balance.  His hip hits the tile at the same moment the cereal does.  The resulting clattering crash is loud enough to make Steve’s brain shake in his skull.  And to carry a stirring sound from upstairs.

 

Steve presses his eyes shut in an attempt to block out at least one of his senses.  Guilt would be overwhelming were it not for the intense pain in his head blocking out practically every other feeling.  Footsteps slap down the stairs, and Steve’s heart palpates with the same beat. 

 

“What’s…what’s going on?”  Bucky’s voice has the heavy, almost drugged quality it tends to carry when he’s stuck in memories, unsure of how to interpret what’s in front of him.

 

“Sorry,” Steve mumbles, finding a sitting position and scrubbing, wet, milky hands over his face.  “Didn’t mean to…wake you up.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Was…trying to get something to eat.  I, uh…have a headache.”

 

“Yeah, you…look sick,” Bucky says.  “You look like a kid.”

 

“Yeah, I was sick a lot as a kid,” Steve slurs, proud of Bucky for remembering, but also so finished with talking. 

 

“Hm,” Bucky ponders.  Then, “You’re, you should…I mean, I’ll clean this up.”  He gestures down at the ocean of milk and cereal.

 

“Oh, no, if you’re still not feeling good,” Steve starts, using the countertop to haul himself to his feet.

 

“I’m kinda back to normal,” Bucky says.  “A little…I don’t know, foggy, maybe?  But you’re…you need to lie down.”

 

“No, I’m…”  Steve’s about to say __ok__ , but stomach growls and sickening vertigo assaults him at the same time and he just groans, “Oh, geez.”

 

“Go back upstairs.  I’ll bring you up something,” Bucky says, already tearing paper towels from the roll. 

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah.  Go.”  He squeezes Steve’s shoulder as he passes, leaving damp footprints through the entryway on his way to the staircase.

 

Steve nearly passes out when he bends to get a washcloth out of the cabinet under the sink.  Hardly a day with too little sleep and too little food and too much anxiety is taking such a toll on him, and he’s suddenly struck with how strong Bucky has to be in comparison.

 

Once he’s in clean clothes, Steve falls on top of the rumpled bedclothes, leaving his feet behind on the floor.  He folds his hands over his face and breathes deeply until the door swings open and the yeasty scent of toast fills the room.  It’s comforting, and just breathing it in pushes down the lingering nausea.

 

“Here,” Bucky pokes Steve’s cheek with the corner of a toast triangle.

 

“Be gentle,” Steve teases him, reaching out blindly for the food.  He takes a bite.  “Sorry I woke you up like that.  I just, thought I’d get some painkillers and something to eat and run back up here.”

 

“It’s ok,” Bucky says.  He sprawls on his stomach and cards his fingers through Steve’s hair.  “I think…I kind of knew you weren’t going away.  It was just…hard to believe it.”

 

“I’m gonna be ok,” Steve tells him.  “You don’t have to worry about me.”

 

“Yeah, I do.” Bucky says around a bite of his own toast.  “Same reason you worry about me.  I guess I just love you.”


End file.
